The Pines (35 page)

The lamp sputtered and smoked, then began to burn steadily, and she replaced the glass, ignoring the soot that got on her hands. Run through by a curving crack, one side of the lamp’s chimney was blackened, marred by greasy fingerprints.
Pamela’s
fingerprints.
She took a deep breath.

Holding the lantern out before her, she passed slowly down the cellar stairs into the depths of the house. On the crack-veined wall, the rocking light revealed only a thick layer of dust on plaster and slats.

Uneven strands of cobweb melted across her arm as her shoes scuffed at the rough floor. Monstrous shadows swung about her as she moved forward, and the smell of wet coal hung in the dampness. Granny Lee’s trunk lay far in the back, boxes stacked all around it. She set the lantern down, and the swirls of the lamp glass made concentric patterns on the floor.

Mice stirred as she shifted boxes. Taking hold of the handles, she heaved the chest forward a bit, clearing the way as she pulled. The hinges stuck at first, then the top opened soundlessly.

She brought the lamp closer and held it above the trunk. Her hand went to the old shawl on top. She sighed and held the fabric close. It smelled of dust and age and lilac. Perching the lamp on a box, she rummaged deeper, while flights of dust rose. One by one, she handled the bits of bric-a-brac, the framed diploma, the family album, a shoe box marked documents. Underneath it all lay the book.

It was a volume of stories and verse for children, and by the dim glow, she leafed through it, scarcely seeing the faded illustrations, truly seeing only her memories of them. Parchment crumbs and clots of dust flaked down. Expanded from the dampness, the rough-cut pages felt thick, the paper fuzzy at her fingertips. The book was yellowed and cracked, but her memories were soft and deep. She paged past stories of treasures and handsome princes, through fairy tales with grotesque drawings of trolls and witches, then past selections from Mother Goose and the Brothers Grimm. At last, she found the Lewis Carroll poem, and her lips softly formed the words.

“‘Beware the Jabberwok, my son.’”

She savored the soothing whisper of her own voice. Almost, she seemed to comprehend the nonsense words, which for the first time appeared to mask some underlying reality.

“‘The claws that catch, the jaws that bite.’”

Irresistibly, an image formed in her mind, an image of something that hovered just out of sight above the pines, something that played with Matthew when he was all alone. As she crouched on the grimy basement floor, she recalled reading this poem to her baby, her bright baby, much too young to understand.

She turned the page, and a sound choked in her throat: the monster—the famous Tenniel illustration. Horrible and bug-eyed, the creature tore at her from the page—the flapping wings, the feeding tendrils, the reptilian tail.

Behind her, the basement door swung shut, and a slithering sound shifted on the stairs. The book dropped. Unsteadily, she stood and slowly raised the lantern. The light didn’t quite reach. “Who’s there?”

Bare feet padded on the stairs. “Pammy’s dead.”

Looking at the bloodless face, she felt sickened.

“Chabwok got her…blood…coming…” The boy spoke in a dulled voice. “He’s coming.”

“No, Matthew, it’s all right. Stay there. Don’t come down in your bare feet.” Going to him, she tried to turn him around and lead him back up the steps.

The floorboards above their heads vibrated as though from an explosion.

“Chabwok…killed…Pammy.”

She froze. Instinctively, she stretched out a hand; the boy’s shoulder felt rigid as wood.

Overhead, something growled, breathing down through the boards.

“No!” She tripped, almost dropping the lantern, caught herself on the banister.
The thing! It’s in the house. The thing from the woods!

Her reeling brain tried to interpret what she heard. “Listen…it’s going upstairs,” she hissed. “Don’t make a sound.”

There came animal cries—more felt in the skull than heard—a snarling, rampaging fury. Groping toward the door, she pressed close, trying to make out exactly where the noise was coming from.
My room?

Sudden silence.

Doris’s rifle is just outside in her car.
Her hand touched the doorknob. Listening, she turned the knob slowly. Her muscles tensed with a dull nausea as she opened the door an inch.
If I
can move fast enough…

“Don’t…try. H-He knows…” Behind her, Matthew spoke clearly. “…hears me, hears in my head, knows where we…coming now.”

The ceiling rafters shook, and dust sifted.

“Coming down.”

Thunder drummed through the walls.

“Down here.”

She pulled the door shut. “The key!” A cry of fear spurted from her as she thrust her hand in her pocket. “Where did I…?”

She found it, fumbled it into the lock.

The door thundered and shook, gritty cinders raining down on their heads. The key fell out and rattled down the stairs. She stepped back, grabbing the boy. The door leaped in its frame.

“It won’t hold!” she shouted over the roaring. “Oh God, it won’t hold!” Letting go of the boy, she scrambled back to the landing and reached for the shelf.
It’s gotten stronger!
She stood with her back to the door, and it slammed against her spine.
Stronger than before!
Something screamed in her ear. Clutching the shelf to keep from being thrown down the stairs, she screamed herself as she dragged down the toolbox.

She pulled it open, crouching on the stairs by the lamp. “Don’t be frightened, Matthew!” Snarling rage and a stench poured through the battered door. “Don’t be afraid!” As she tore the shelf plank off its braces, the entire contents of the shelf crashed down the stairs. The boy watched, his face blank and cold, while she grabbed the hammer and a fistful of nails.

She threw herself against the door. The thing beat at it, and the door struck her head, but she pressed with all her strength, trying to hold it still while she drove a nail through the plank. “Matthew, help me!” The first nail bent, and she struck her finger. Clawing at the wood, she drove in another, slippery with blood, felt it bite deep into the wood. And another. In the dark, her blood dripped down the frame. The boy never moved. Waves of fury beat at the door with hurricane force.

Hammering and shrieking, she drove in all the long nails she could find. But it would not hold, she knew. Already, the wood splintered.

She clutched the hammer to her breast, then dumped out the contents of the toolbox. Screws and nuts and buttons scattered, bouncing down the stairs. No more nails. She dropped the hammer, held up the lamp.
When it gets in, I’ll try to break the
lantern on it. Burn it.
But the house would catch, and Matthew was behind her on the stairs.
God help us.

With wild ferocity, it beat against the wood, and the door began lurching apart. She felt the boy’s hand on her legs. “Oh Matthew, I’m so sorry.” She bent to hold him. Her vision wavered, and her thoughts began to spin. Shock waves pummeled them, rhythmic now, as the thing crashed into the door again and again. Matthew clutched her tightly, and with a blurring of senses, it seemed to her they joined somehow, became for an instant like vines grown thick and strong together in the storm. She shook her head forcefully. “No! Go away! Do you hear me? Leave us alone!”

The door would burst apart in seconds. Dazed, she watched bright cracks radiate across it, kitchen light seeping through. “Matthew! Stay behind me!” She reached back for his hand. Nothing. Empty air.

The boy crouched by the door.

“No! Get back!” Nearly paralyzed, she tried to grab him.

Kneeling, Matty whispered. Through a chink, a shaft of light struck one of his eyes. Ivory. Onyx. He murmured. Instantly, the attack became less violent. Then it stopped.

On hands and knees, the boy continued murmuring under the door. On the other side, weight slid against the wood. It eased inward again. She sank to her knees and tried to make out the boy’s words, but his voice stayed too low. From the other side, something snuffled and snorted around the doorjamb, as though a giant hog rampaged in the kitchen. She heard a padding sound. Foul breath oozed through the cracks. Drawing back from the smell, she touched the boy, listened to the comfort offered by his crooning voice—gibberish, baby talk.

And then silence.

“Is it gone? Matthew, did it go away?”

They crouched in silence, and the lantern burned low. She leaned an ear against the wood. The door wobbled.
Anyone could
kick it down now. If it comes back…
Holding her breath, she groped about for the hammer.

She waited, listening.

“Matthew, we’re going to try and make a run for Aunt Doris’s car. Matthew? Can you understand what I’m saying?”

But what if
—
just this once
—
Doris didn’t leave her keys in the ignition?
Trying to work quietly with the claw end of the hammer, she began pulling out nails. They squealed softly.
What if
it’s outside waiting for us?

The door pulled away from her, broke from its hinges and heaved to the floor. She blinked at the light. Gripping the hammer, she took Matthew’s hand and drew him after her. Splintered wood crunched underfoot. The kitchen table lay upside down atop two smashed chairs.

The boy stumbling behind her, she crept to the back door.

She stared. The bolt was still in place.

How did it get in?
She couldn’t tear her eyes away.
How did it
get out?

The door shook, and she screamed.

“Athena! ’Thena, let me in! What’s wrong? Athena!”

“Steven? Oh God. Steven.” She unlatched the door and swung it open, the hammer falling from her fingers to thud on the loose floorboards.

He grabbed her. “Sweet Jesus, ’Thena, what…?”

“It’s here. The thing. In the house.”

Reaching for his service revolver, he pushed past her. She hung on to the door.

After a moment, he returned. “’Thena?” His eyes took in the demolished kitchen.

“It…”

“It’s okay, ’Thena. I’m here now.”

Still shaking and gripping the door, she turned to the outer darkness. “We locked ourselves in the basement.” Her voice grated with exhaustion, words barely emerging from her throat.

“We?”

As she looked back, her eyes went wild. “Matthew! Where are you?”

In the living room, the boy knelt by the sofa and crooned.

“There!” Her fingers stabbed. “Behind the sofa!”

He waved her aside, motioned for her to be silent. The boy appeared not to be aware of him. Revolver drawn, he got down on his hands and knees, grunting. “It’s okay, boy. It’s okay.” He got up again. “There’s one hell of a frightened dog under there. That’s all.”

But she only held her head to the side as though listening to things he couldn’t hear.

He wondered if he’d ever seen a more terrified human being. “’Thena, let me look around. Why don’t you come and sit here?”

But she moved to the boy. “Matthew? Are you all right?”

When finally the boy looked up, Steve stepped closer. He squirmed as the boy’s queer eyes fell upon him. Steve turned away, not knowing where to look. Stuffing had been ripped from the sofa, and an armchair lay on its side in the center of the room. Curtains covered the floor. “I’m going to go upstairs and search.”

“No, it’s gone.” She gave him a trembling smile and tried to smooth back her hair. “I…knew it was gone…the second we came out of the basement. I could feel it. I don’t know why I acted so—”

“You’re okay.” Again, he surveyed the room. “Everything’s all right now.” He righted the armchair. “But you can’t stay here anymore.”

“Where could we go?”

“Neighbors? Family?”

She shook her head.

“The two of you could come to my house.” He waited, but she said nothing. “How did it get in?”

Distractedly, she shrugged.

Steve paced the room, examining the windows. “No signs of a break-in.” The dog wouldn’t come out from beneath the sofa. Matty stopped mumbling and just sat there on the rug, playing with his fingers, walking them about on the floor.

She sat in the armchair. “How’s Doris?”

“They were getting set to do X-rays when I left. What’s behind this door?”

“The other part of the house. Rooms we don’t use.”

“Let’s take a look.”

“It’s dangerous. The floors…”

There were bolts at the top and bottom of the door, and he drew them with difficulty. Stiff hinges gave only when he threw his weight against them. “Can we get some light in here?” Again, he drew his gun. Behind him, she righted a lamp, removed the shade and brought the bare bulb as close to the doorway as the cord would allow.

Inside lay thick emptiness, the air heavy with moldy dust. Covered by a sheet, a large piece of furniture occupied the center of the room. Steve took a few hesitant steps. “I see what you mean about the floor.” He stumbled and cursed.

“What’s the matter?” she asked from the doorway.

“Nothing. A soft spot.” The lamp didn’t illuminate much; only water-damaged walls stood out in the gloom. He heard boards groan as she came toward him. “Better stay out there. Is this the only other door that leads outside?” He moved toward it, feeling the uneven floor sink with each step. “Still bolted.” He rattled the bolt and turned to her, his vision adjusting, saw the glitter of her eyes as she approached. “Walk along the edge of the floor, near the wall,” he advised. “When I was driving Doris to the hospital, she said something about your going into town to find some guy.”

“Pamela told me about him.”

“Why didn’t you wait for me?” His back to her now, he tested the boards across a tightly shuttered window.

“Pam’s still missing,” she told him. “Matty says she’s…”

“Doris also mentioned about some locals having left the area.” Again, the unspoken reprimand sounded in his voice. “What’s through here?”

“Just another room. Steve, wait.”

He ducked through the doorway, and she stood motionless. The amount of dust in the air made it hard to breathe, and wheezing slightly, she looked back at the lamp in the doorway.